THE HYMN OF THE CHVRCH, IN MEDITATION OF THE DAY OF IVDGMENT.[54]

I.

Hear'st thou, my soul, what serious things Both the Psalm and sybyll sings Of a sure Iudge, from Whose sharp ray The World in flames shall fly away.

II.

O that fire! before whose face Heaun and Earth shall find no place.

O those eyes! Whose angry light Must be the day of that dread night.

III.

O that trump! whose blast shall run An euen round with the circling sun, And vrge the murmuring graues to bring Pale mankind forth to meet his King.

IV.

Horror of Nature, h.e.l.l, and Death!

When a deep groan from beneath Shall cry, We come, we come, and all The caues of Night answer one call.

V.

O that Book! whose leaues so bright Will sett the World in seuere light.

O that Iudge! Whose hand, Whose eye None can indure; yet none can fly.

VI.

Ah then, poor soul, what wilt thou say?

And to what patron chuse to pray?

When starres themselues shall stagger; and The most firm foot no more then stand.

VII.

But Thou giu'st leaue (dread Lord!) that we Take shelter from Thy self, in Thee; And with the wings of Thine Own doue Fly to Thy scepter of soft loue.

VIII.

Dear, remember in that Day Who was the cause Thou cam'st this way.

Thy sheep was stray'd; and Thou wouldst be Euen lost Thyself in seeking me.

IX.

Shall all that labour, all that cost Of loue, and eu'n that losse, be lost?

And this lou'd soul, iudg'd worth no lesse Then all that way, and wearyness.

X.

Iust mercy then, Thy reckning be With my Price, and not with me; 'Twas pay'd at first with too much pain, To be pay'd twice; or once, in vain.

XI.

Mercy (my Iudge), mercy I cry With blushing cheek and bleeding ey: The conscious colors of my sin Are red without and pale within.

XII.

O let Thine Own soft bowells pay Thy self; and so discharge that day.

If Sin can sigh, Loue can forgiue: O say the word, my soul shall liue.

XIII.

Those mercyes which Thy Mary found, Or who Thy crosse confes't and crown'd; Hope tells my heart, the same loues be Still aliue, and still for me.

XIV.

Though both my prayres and teares combine, Both worthlesse are; for they are mine.

But Thou Thy bounteous Self still be; And show Thou art, by sauing me.

XV.

O when Thy last frown shall proclaim The flocks of goates to folds of flame, And all Thy lost sheep found shall be; Let 'Come ye blessed,' then call me.

XVI.

When the dread '_Ite_' shall diuide Those limbs of death, from Thy left side; Let those life-speaking lipps command That I inheritt Thy right hand.

XVII.

O hear a suppliant heart, all crush't And crumbled into contrite dust.

My hope, my fear! my Iudge, my Freind!

Take charge of me, and of my end.

NOTES AND ILl.u.s.tRATIONS.